823 Letters to my Heart.

31. Host.

AM — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 00:41:14 +0000

On father’s side, grandpapa traces lines
Generations beyond May’s flower.
The story is told to be similar for gram’s mum.
Mother’s side is in the process of doing the same: digging
European soil out of row upon row of American:
Grave.

The boy sleeps.

Mother had prepared a room
Walls the color of pulsing fresh salmon flesh
Stood prior to his arrival.

The boy stirs.

Walls glow; illuminate
By frosted light sourced
From the goldenrod
Window
Pains.
Air is temperate
Inside.

There is love in this light.

A mother wanders
Dismal, dank and dreary
Remains of the bludgeoning
Empire, between storms. All
Most
Every
Thing her eyes can find
Beyond their four walls: broken,
Sootstainedecay
Rotting into scented shades of muddied fecal browns, bloodrusted postmodern shaded greys.

A mother searches for something
They can eat, in the halls
Between the cracks
In walls
The vacuous expanse
Of voidance pulling her through

A house that is not her own.

And yet,
[t]his house
Houses her
Heart in it.

30. Casey 31

AM — Wed, 27 Jul 2011 10:59:00 +0000

She is dressed in a white mesh football jersey which reads J. Casey 31 across her back. She’s wearing his jockstrap and there are small fresh bite marks just below the thick left elastic angle and just above a cigarette-burn shaped birthmark. Her legs are lithe, bronze and cast nice ligament shadows into the caves of her knees which are bent in slightly, supporting her as she scours through his ancient refrigerator. When she turns he reads Trinity U in bold gold metallic script across her chest. And, she’s pretty.

Not Harper’s or Bazaar pretty, she has the timeless face that just doesn’t capture on film. He knows things about this face because he has one quite like it–hers getting her things he must work harder for: easy access to disco’s, better shifts on jobs, out of petty trouble–in the real world… the list goes on. The most interesting thing, though, about this face which peers at him through wild, wavey, side-angled, dark-chocolate fringe, is that he doesn’t recognize her from Adam (or Eve for that matter). What’s more, he doesn’t remember how she got here, nor recall what put him in this current state he’s found himself in: immobile… in his bed… gaping at a 5 foot 4 goblin–with a great pair, eating him out of house and home.

Walking towards him, the closer she comes, the tighter he grips the sheets up to his chin. He feels electric twitches pulse through his sciatic nerves. Just above that, by roughly 7 inches, he feels the elastic pressure gathering his undershorts to his abdominal cavity which means that they’re both semi-dressed, and he has nothing to reference what might be about to happen. In spite of his nerve–his body and its shroud appear as though still, as he watches her lift each knee upon his bedsheets, pressing each one into his bed, just beside and angling in toward his right calf.

From the head of his bed he sees her jockstrap fits as though tailor-made for her body–lacking any sort of bulge as it hugs. And, as he jerks his wading eyes up to her smoking ones: hazy framed snapshots from the night prior begin swimming for bites of his snap-crackling memory cells.

“Is Justin your boyfriend?” Zach pictures the Trinity team pulverizing him: body and skull, over this conquest. She tilts her head slightly to her left. Zach pleads with his mind to focus. She’s upright, kneeling before him, and his thoughts can only counter-point their blurred development with the crystal clear focus his mind has on the bite-mark. He by-passes all standard salutations, choosing “Did I hurt you?” To partner his first inquiry, and start this new day.

She sits up higher and silently reaches for the bottom right corner of her jersey and starts pulling it up…

I always suspected an ancient, toothless shark to be my spirit animal. Zach thinks. His eyes trace her movement up her right arm to a ring of fresh pink bruising lining her collar.

Zach’s knuckles drain senselessly white…

To be continued.

29. Aphrodisia.

AM — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 09:46:00 +0000

It would be a lie to say that her heart is made of pure loving light. In her making, her architect chose an oblong beaker of glass with a mercury mesh-work of veins inlaid in a crisscross pattern. The beaker, placed within the cedar lock-box of her steel-caged chest: is filled. Liquid Ice preserves and chills her clockwork of golden love coiling and tickling the brass of her sadness in ticks which tock the copper cogs and spin titanium gears of rage: the by-product of silver mind-screen’s inability: to forget. In its core there is the diamond mother of pearl of her momentum’s creation: catalyst–feeding upon her timeless soul as it too feeds her: with the knowledge that there is mostly love in there, though. And, this feeding is all so reciprocal.

There is very little trust, it is made of thin tin and swims like glitter in a tiny globe. And, for this she is too careful.

28. Socorro.

AM — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 12:37:00 +0000

You look like ET, you know that scene where Elliot wakes up in the woods and can’t find you so I wrangle the posse to scour the hills, only to find you: naked, stiff and catalyst for crying.

Your throat is filled with red liquid, it has kissed the inner membranes of your nose and your limbs are Christ-like, withered, discolored and bruised: testament to your years of chemo, gout, and suffering. The rest of your body bloats as we surround you .

___________________________________________________________

Last Thursday: Socorro! Socorro! Socorro!
You wake screaming: Distress! in a tongue you rarely use anymore. Mom can hear a scuffle in the front room which is becoming your bedroom, she runs in expecting murder. Expecting to save you.

A giant coyote was eating you. In your dream. You kicked the wall from your bed to save yourself.

____________________________________________________________

Last Friday: We are certain you have broken your toe. The doctor’s only care about your heart, which is clogged. More meds. More pain. You want me with you. You want crucifixes. You carry an armoire downstairs to show that you still can. You skip meds. You wash your clothes by hand in the bathroom sink and pay your bills.

_____________________________________________________________

Your children take turns sleeping in your house because you refuse assisted living, these are rough days and you shouldn’t face them alone. You hand your great-grandchild money after visiting you. Suddenly you are the grandfather I wanted. Suddenly, the phone rings and mom is shaking and wailing and crying. Suddenly we are flying down the 405 to the last exit before Mexico: that mound of unamerican glitter, lacking grid. Facing a wall of stars that are lights, I hail Mary.

_____________________________________________________________

You are the sick ET now. The medics left your six-foot-two mass naked on false wood floor. You have a hand-washed sheet to keep you warm as your heat escapes you. I watch mom break and become my child. I have a hand on each of you but all I see is blood and bruise, and gaping lips. All I see is the ringing in my ears as I realize that you will never be here for me. All I see is the blinding love of a frozen girl: me losing control as my eyes find branding marks splashed across your beautiful chest from where they tried to revive you.

Pipes and stickers, a bag and some tubes. I can’t believe they left you on the floor. There is a laying of 40 or so hands because we are here for each other, and when we touch you we are all rivers of love. You are tie-dyeing your death-shroud with our blood. You are hanging over the gurney. The morticians can barely lift you. There is a hole in my heart where yours failed you.

27. Detachment.

AM — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 17:18:30 +0000

Detachment makes things different from easy. It makes the most difficult things dreamy surreal.

26. Monologue of Platinum Mind.

AM — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 16:06:00 +0000

The thing about dialogue is that you can’t ever erase what has been said. The impact which is forever within you–will taunt you. You will find yourself standing, alone: a living breathing testament to understanding: subject to the whimsy and guise of external perception. The outside world appreciating the half of what you truly are: the living breathing likeness of what your inner dialogue becomes.

_______________________________________________________

This world would build a wall between you and I so that I might simply draw a world between us, upon it: my monologue with my self: a portrait of this place in which you could never belong, visit, nor dwell. You would then proceed to call me rough for my useless reaction. Diamond-like–for my transgressional transparency as your X-ray eyes pierce your towering fortress–mirror-image inversions of perception taking in the prayers upon prayers upon eggshell canvas (this): my flimsy, weak assault upon your high judicial beck and call.

My fault in all matters could grant you your healthy attention to my speculative, indivisible flaws. All for being walled in, a natural. Plucked to be touched by the rough skilled hands of the jeweler that can cut me right.

Pimp my facet.

Falsify the true value of our profits.

Make of me the gem which you’ll threaten time and again with any silly thing: the rock tumbler, raw minerals: the source of all soiling pigments and tints. This diamond will remain, true. To partake of you and your war-paint making culture, I find my way. Adorning the high walls of court with frescoes from the deep statuesque state of memorial slumber you leave me in. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Today.

To be precious ore not to be? That is the question.

I take my time and care with receptivity.

25. LoveRx.

AM — Mon, 20 Jun 2011 22:26:19 +0000

From her side of the bed:

Eyes wide open in a penetrating stare. Teeth gnash. Nails scratch. Fight for flight. Chest tight. Stomach tense. Throat utterly constricted.

He is trying to kill me.

Nurse Rybody stood at the head of her bed.

The size of the feeding pipe, intimidating by anybodies standards–is held firmly in place by his right hand. Left arm bracing the roll bar just left of her gaping, motionless head. Her eyes are always open. The textbooks state that she can’t see or feel procedures. Comatose. Though, she can hear.

He speaks softly of this painless process, of her progress… he promises her: Recovery.

Rybody is comforted by his method. Comforted by his male strength which relieves the chance of mishaps or friction facing the female counterparts in his field. Rybody takes comfort in his textbook memorization which provides him endless supplies of self affirmation. He is a damned good nurse, and he will nurse her.

He transfers his left hand in to comb and grip the crown of her still-sleeping head. Tilts Minette in just the right angles. Pressing the pipe, gingerly, tracing it along her soft, pink, tractionless tunnel.

Both of their eyes open. Hers are extremely dark. He begins the meal with the slightest turn of a small radial dial.

Phantom fireworks sparkle retinally–as her small intestines drink in the equivalent of medical manna, for the very first time.

24. We Had a Fan Once.

AM — Fri, 27 May 2011 19:57:24 +0000

He had two foaming heads and the body of a dog…

For that, we killed him.

He lies out back beneath the Birches, decaying leaves and homeless, aimless, dying, honey bees. A dystopian compost pile of our very own; growling louder than its serene, filtry spring-light-spackled appearance.

23. Fantasy.

AM — Thu, 26 May 2011 05:18:35 +0000

Deep delusion. The idolatry of extremes,
and, perhaps, extremities.

I am innocent today.

Yes, today I am spotless. Stainless. Shameless. I am
above suspicion. Angelic. Chaste. Clean. Sinless. Crimeless. Faultless.
Good.
Immaculate. I am
impeccable, inculpable.
Ir-re-proach-able… Legitimate.
Licit.

Unimpeachable.

Infallible.

She must first beg for rape, in order that it be good.
Don’t be a pig about it.

22. Rapture.

AM — Mon, 23 May 2011 01:18:11 +0000

And you don’t stop, sure shot
Go out to the parking lot
And you get in your car and you drive real far
And you drive all night and then you see a light
And it comes right down and lands on the ground
And out comes a man from Mars
And you try to run but he’s got a gun
And he shoots you dead and he eats your head
And then you’re in the man from Mars
You go out at night, eatin’ cars
You eat Cadillacs, Lincolns too
Mercuries and Subarus
And you don’t stop, you keep on eatin’ cars
Then, when there’s no more cars
You go out at night and eat up bars where the people meet
Face to face, dance cheek to cheek
One to one, man to man
Dance toe to toe
Don’t move too slow, ’cause the man from Mars
Is through with cars, he’s eatin’ bars
Yeah, wall to wall, door to door, hall to hall
He’s gonna eat ‘em all
Rapture, be pure
Take a tour, through the sewer
Don’t strain your brain, paint a train
You’ll be singin’ in the rain
I said don’t stop, do punk rock

Well now you see what you wanna be
Just have your party on TV
‘Cause the man from Mars won’t eat up bars when the TV’s on
And now he’s gone back up to space
Where he won’t have a hassle with the human race
And you hip-hop, and you don’t stop
Just blast off, sure shot
‘Cause the man from Mars stopped eatin’ cars and eatin’ bars
And now he only eats guitars, get up!